Back to the Beginning
by Curreeus
Summary: A re-write of the first few paragraphs of 'A Study in Scarlet'. Written for a school project. Rated T for safety - Watson being shot.


As I look back upon the journals I hastily scrawled during my army service as assistant surgeon with both the Northumberland Fusiliers and the Berkshires, I nostalgically recall the ideas I had in my head at the time concerning where I was going with my life. I had intended to go to war and win the glory that so many veterans seemed to proclaim with pride, coming home to a grateful country and a medical practice that I could mould into something great like so much clay between my fingers.

Yes, my plan had been to return from war with victory in my palms and the world at my feet, but plans are always made to go awry.

The exact moment that fledgling plan died became a still-born in my arms could be pinpointed at the moment I stepped off the ship at Bombay.

The regiment I was to be attached to was already miles away, deep in the wild danger of the enemy's country, and the second Afghan War had begun, quick upon the heels of the first.

I followed my corps in much the same fashion, and as soon as I set foot in the camp I entered my new duties.

The years that followed were one mass of blood, death and horror for me. The glory I had dreamed of seemed to come for everyone but me as if I were some sort of repellent.

I felt like a different person – not better, just different. There is only so much blood and horror one can take before it becomes too much, and it becomes a horrific experience to even think about making another futile attempt to save someone's life.

All the dreams you could have had prior to joining the seemingly endless carnage are petulant and laughable in the face of what lies ahead of you now.

The thing I found myself dreaming about during the tension-filled, scant nights where sleep was had is a land with the green of plentiful flora, in the stead of the endless expanse of sand I saw everyday of my miserable existence. Of perhaps one true friend that shares an afternoon of lethargy with you instead of a fellow soldier who attempts to share a joke with you one minute, and blows someone's brains out the next.

More often than not, I am awoken from these dreams by gunfire and I practically spring from my makeshift bed to perform my duties as an assistant surgeon.

The routine of the dreary half- existence I then led was interrupted, by the event that redirected the flow of the turbulent river that was my life.

I remember the pain of getting shot that felt like a butcher cleaving my shoulder from the rest of my body with the carnal tools of his trade. As though I was being torn apart, limb from limb by some bestial creature, and my blood was being set on fire. I recall crumpling to the ground, a somewhat lesser, but by no means painless sensation ripping through my thigh.

The pain was so complete that I didn't realise that Murray, my orderly, was bearing me away from the field of battle.

~oOo~

The bullets were dug from my flesh in much the same way as they were put there – viciously. There was some shrapnel that couldn't be removed by the butcher that was my surgeon, and it would have to remain in my shoulder for the remainder of my natural existence.

It was a harrowing thought to realise that, at the age of eight and twenty, I was crippled, and would be for the rest of my life.

Enteric fever, the Indian sickness I came down with after my surgery had been done with, and I had had barely enough time to fully recover, struck with a snarling vengeance due to the hardships I had endured for the past two years. It seemed as though some higher power was shocked that I hadn't submitted to the pain yet, and was determined to break me. And I was equally as determined to rebel against the plan.

Plans are made to go awry, after all.

For months my mind was shrouded with the pain and delusion of the fever, and when I finally emerged from it, most of my mind still intact, I was weak as a new-born kitten and unable to cast half a shadow with emaciation.

There was no other option but to send me back to England, which was done immediately.

I landed at Portsmouth on the ship _Orontes _without a friend in the world or a penny in my pocket.

My health would never be what it was. I couldn't even dare to hope that I would recover fully in the nine months the government had given me to make a futile attempt at doing so. Thus, I found myself drawn to the sprawling mass of human life and civilisation that is London, and, in order to conserve my finances, I had made up my mind to find a more inexpensive, sustainable method of living, more suited to the meagre army pension I had been allocated along with every other poor soul that shared my predicament.

Upon arriving at this decision, I had found myself standing in the Criterion Bar, being tapped on the shoulder by a young man by the name of Stamford. I had made his acquaintance through my education at Bart's – he had been a dresser, younger than me.

I had seen no-one from that era of my life for what seemed like an age, and a nostalgic feeling swept over me as I was reminded of happier times, when I had been a whole human without metal buried in my shoulder.

He and I had never been close, but now we both exchanged greetings like the best of friends, and one would have been hard put to decide which of us was more glad to see the other. On a joyful whim, I invited him to join me for lunch at the Holborn, and at his acquiescence, I hailed a hansom and we started off together.

**(A/N): I wrote this for a school project – we had to re-write the ending of the book we were reading, and I was re-reading 'A Study in Scarlet.' I opted to do the beginning instead. **

**Not really Watson's voice and I don't know if this really counts as Fanfiction, but I'll put it here anyway. My first uploaded foray into canon!Holmes territory, even though you don't even see Holmes.**

**Please comment with thoughts and criticisms! :D**


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